Not Quite Love: a Remus and Ginny Anthology
by big tears
Summary: A celebration of everything Remus and Ginny. Friendship, romance, misery drowning... No Smut.
1. Immature

**A/N:** Wow... haven't written R/G in a while. Anyway, I'll take this opportunity to disclaim the characters... as they're not mine. Toodles.

He had been young once, and she had been much too old for a girl of seventeen. Her hair had dulled, faded to a coppery-brown; movement adopted a sort of slowness and her eyes... Her eyes spoke of many instances she had spent in the dark, in every sense of the word.

He used to sit and wonder how she could be so morosely electrifying and why she made him feel so immature. He was thirty-nine years old, and yet he could have sworn he was just thirteen -- twisted and tied in the throes of something not quite love but never lust. She was choking him, he supposed, and this is what it felt like to be throttled by a girl who knew too much.

"You intrigue me," she said once, tone dark as poison. She looked up from a book she had been perusing, pale face glowing in the light of several dripping candles. 

She wasn't particularly beautiful, by the world's standards, but there was something about her that left him at a complete loss for words. She was tragic; a damsel in distress, per se, who desperately needed rescuing from her own bitter memories.

"Do I?" he replied, wondering just what it would take to release her from the ball and chain that had been wrapped around her mind.

"Oh, very much so." She returned to her reading after that, eyes never leaving the curling yellow pages -- much to his chagrin.

She told him once that she frequently downed a bottle of firewhisky over the course of a day, something like Word War One and Two veterans who had seen too much bloodshed and needed to escape their nightmares. She told him that when she was inebriated, the visions blurred out and all she saw afterwards was his face. 

"I'm sorry," he had said, frowning deeply. 

But she came back at him with "Oh, don't be! I quite like your puzzling little face." and placed her lips on the center of his forehead, leaving him with a mark of blood-red affection where everyone could see it.

"Do you know what I think?" she added as an afterthought, looking up at him with a wicked smile. 

"No, but I'd kill to find out."

She chuckled and patted his cheek with a slender hand. "I think red suits you."


	2. Secretive

**A/N:** I apologize for the strangeness of this chapter, but it was something I had stuck in my head and it needed to be written and posted. Thus begins the second chapter of Not Quite Love: a Remus/Ginny anthology.

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Remus J. Lupin was always much too calm for my liking. It amazed (and, to some degree, horrified) me that he could sit perfectly still and silent for over an hour, even in a time of chaos. Fred and George used to say that if a clan of Death Eaters showed up on Lupin's front step, he'd smile and invite them in for tea and biscuits. I didn't doubt it. The man had never shown a bit of raw emotion in all of the years I knew him, and even though I joked about it I found myself cross with him. 

I'm the kind of person who believes in living life to the fullest, as Mum would say. Any opportunity to feel something that goes unnoticed is very much a sin in my eyes, and although I was sure that my ex-professor didn't really give a damn, I decided that it was my mission to _make_ him. Which is why I started throwing things at the bloke. 

It was a simple goal I had in mind: cause him to explode. Either with rage or joy or terror, I really didn't care. I suppose I just wanted a manifestation of feeling, something to let me know that he was actually in there behind his authority and morbid sense of humor. 

The first time I did it we were staying at 12 Grimmauld Place, and he had shut himself up in a study for what he called "a bit of reading". The door was locked, which made sense when one considers that Mundungus Fletcher had returned for the summer holiday, and upon discovering this I was very unnerved. I wasn't allowed to use magic outside of school, and most of the rooms had no windows... 

Then I remembered something very important that Fred and George had taught me. It was something Muggle children did called Doorbell Ditching, where you'd knock on the door (or ring the bell) and then run. It wasn't very amusing on most occasions, unless it was late at night or the Ditcher had left a bag of flaming something-or-other for the Ditchee to discover, but as I considered and reconsidered I decided it would serve my purpose. 

I armed myself with an egg, knocked, and hid behind a corner across the hall. Lupin answered. 

The egg didn't phase him. He glanced around, raised an eyebrow, and went back to his reading with the door firmly shut. Well, I was determined. I kept chucking eggs and peeled bananas and cups of jelly -- later moving onto mixtures of custard and shampoo, potions with interesting side effects and -- once, when I was feeling particularly bitter about things -- a clock. I kept throwing things until I was well into being sixteen, when I finally decided that enough was enough. 

It was the middle of winter holiday when I went to talk to him and he was, as I had predicted, reading again. Brushing up on some rather old spells for the ongoing war against Voldemort. He looked up when I entered, sighed at the distraction, and set his book on a nearby table. 

"Ginny," he said, sounding indifferent. "Come in, have a seat. What can I help you with?" 

I had planned everything I was going to say, but as I sat down and stared at him the words escaped me. He kept giving me the most irritating look, mildly curious and that was all. 

"Remus," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "I'm afraid you're impossible." 

"Yes... Yes, I am." he replied. 

I wasn't expecting that. I wasn't expecting anything, really, but he admitted it and part of me was overjoyed. But he just kept, well, _looking_ at me, which was disconcerting. It was making me very angry that through several things being hurled at his head, an intrusion on his privacy and an accusation of emotional detachment he could sit there, calm as you please, and stare at me. 

I never have been a person to keep my anger a secret. 

"What is it going to take to get a reaction?" I remember half-shouting. "Do you want me to throw a bloody _cow_ at you?" 

I said a lot of other things that I don't recall now, but what I do remember is the fact that we both stood up and had a very long argument. I was irrational and heated, he was collected and reasonable.I shouted at him for near fifteen minutes before he reached out, placed a hand on my shoulder and said: 

"Ginny, just because I don't show things doesn't mean I don't feel them." 

I asked him what that was supposed to mean. He said it wasn't important. But this idea of him feeling things and hiding it began to intrigue me -- I pressed the matter further with all sorts of obnoxious questions. The kind that were usually expected from small, hyperactive children. 

He gave me an exasperated look. "I can't tell you." 

"Then show me, you great bloody liar." 

By this time, I could hear the majority of the household headed up the stairs to see what in the world could be going on. My opponent was beginning to look thoroughly disheveled and I was silently basking in the start of my victory. 

"I can't," he muttered, looking slightly uncomfortable. "I can't. Just leave it at that, would you?" 

I didn't understand why he couldn't show me what he was feeling. Surely it couldn't be anything _wrong_, because he was Remus Lupin and he was decent as he was distant. It couldn't be disturbing... 

"Just do it," I intoned. 

He did it. He looked so hesitant and horrified, more emotion than I had ever seen on his face suddenly making itself known... But he did it. He leaned in and whispered a kiss to my lips, barely allowing them to touch but conveying enough feeling to knock me off of my feet. 

He pulled back just in time for the remainder of the Order to pull open the door, and for Ron to ask what the hell were we shouting for.


	3. Wrong

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the actual book "12 Short Story Writers". I own a COPY, but nothing found within it and certainly not the idea.

**A/N:** Title of Remus's short story comes from the song "All This Useless Beauty" by Elvis Costello. If you can, I recommend listening to it. It's actually what inspired this (once again, odd) chapter.

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**12 SHORT STORY AUTHORS, WIZARDING EDITION**

REMUS J. LUPIN  
[1960 -- 2067]

_Remus John Lupin was born in Devon in 1960. His mother was the daughter of a local politician, while his father was the owner/operator of a fairly popular bookstore. They moved to London when Lupin was six years old as an attempt to find a cure for his lyncanthropy, which developed after a werewolf broke down their door one autumn night and bit a then-sleeping Remus. _

Lupin's education began when he found himself accepted by Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, under the reputable headmaster Albus Dumbledore. Hailing from Gryffindor House, he excelled in many of his classes and was elected Prefect when he was fifteen. 

Not much is known of him after his graduation, though it has been ascertained that he was a member of the reformed Order of the Phoenix and went into battle next to such famed figures as Harry Potter and Alastor ("Mad-Eye") Moody. 

It has also been discovered that, after Dumbledore's death and the Order being overtaken by Mad-Eye, Lupin was ousted from the organization when a torrid affair he had with a seventeen-year-old Ginevra Weasley was brought into the public eye. That, it is said, was when he started his writing. 

While most of Lupin's work seems to be fantasy or science fiction, a collection of realistic short stories he had bound together with a bit of twine was found underneath the bed of his flat in Nottingham, where he died. The anthology had several oddities, "Daybreak" and "Through the Depths of Hell" among them, but "A Pale Compromise" seemed to be the one piece that held everything together. There is still speculation on whether or not this tale is fact or fiction; and if it is fact, whether or not it was written about the same young woman Lupin claimed to have loved so dearly. 

A PALE COMPROMISE

It started with tea, although tea as a beginning just makes things harder to explain. I was making tea -- morning tea, warm and the amber color of twilight -- when I thought of all the places I had never been. America, to start with. Egypt. Hungary. Japan. I've always liked to make lists of things that I have or haven't done, just to see how accomplished I should feel or how much more I need to do. I stirred my tea, still thinking of all those places and trying to ignore the fact that it was thirty-below outside. 

I began to feel depressed, so set my sights a little lower. First, to within the country. Second, to within the area. Third, to within the town. I decided to stay with the town, as there were several places in my building I had not set foot in and never planned to. I sipped my tea and sat at the rotted table which made a pathetic sight in the middle of my kitchen and focused on the anatomy of the streets, of the shops and the restaurants and the cafes. Pubs. I laughed to myself, nearly choking to death at the thought. I had been into one pub in my entire life, back in school when I wasn't particularly wise. To be completely honest, I did not see myself as the type of person to visit a pub -- which is why I finished my tea, bundled up and went to one, I suppose. Besides, it's always interesting to see how things change after twenty-eight years away from them. 

It was dark and dank, and filled with people who looked hopelessly lost in their troubles as they stared into tankards the size of their heads. There seemed to be an abnormal amount of bartenders; most of them seemed to simply stand and polish the top of the counter as they listened to the manic-depressives. 

I purchased a rather large gin, found a booth and occupied myself with napkin-folding for a very long time. I was beginning to feel bored and helpless -- which seemed to be the point of the atmosphere, logically -- when I looked up from my paper artistry and saw her. To this day, I have no idea how long she had been staring at me, but the expression on her face was one of pure joy when my eyes met her face. She removed herself from the company of a burly-looking gentleman at the bar and flounced over to me in an electric blue dress that hung off her shoulders and swished around her knees. 

"John," she said, sitting down across from me and wrapping one of her feet around my ankle, which knocked most of the breath from my lungs. "Bloody hell, I'd never have believed it if you hadn't looked right back at me..." 

She sounded ecstatic, which made my heart race and my hands reach once more for the napkin. It became the victim of nervous twisting and crunching, a casualty of a war that had been going on for nearly five years. She made me feel that way every second that followed our very first kiss, holding each other for dear life in the midst of so many lifeless bodies. 

"Molly," I managed to say. "Good Lord, you've grown up." 

She had. From seventeen to nearly twenty-two had made quite a change in her dainty form, although her skin remained pale and slightly freckled, her hair was still red and her wide eyes were always the color of warm tea. A small, cool hand gently came to rest on mine, which was sweating profusely by this time. 

She smiled sweetly, the same way she did in my memories, although the lines and shadows around her eyes made me grimace. She was always prone to late nights, the hapless student who had forgotten an essay or the carefree teenager who couldn't resist a celebration. But it was no longer teachers or peers she aimed to please... 

"How are Stuart and Duncan?" I asked, staring the hell out of my glass of gin. "Well, I hope?" 

She coughed a little and tried to sound immensely happy: "Oh, yes, they're both wonderful! Duncan's with his Gran at the moment -- she's been knitting everything from little shoes to hats with enormous pompoms for the boy -- and Stuart..." she faltered a bit, although I could feel the forced smile radiating from her face. "Stuart's in New Hampshire on business. I'm staying here because, you see..." 

"It doesn't matter why you're here," I muttered, risking a glance at those amber twilight eyes. "just that you are." 

We stared at each other for a moment, just as we used to, before she broke into a tired grin and exclaimed that I had always been unbearably sentimental. It was a lie -- she was the one who used to write me novel-length letters on nothing at all and still manage to make it known that she loved me more than anything else in the world. Even more than chocolate, which was a frequent quip she inserted whenever she felt like it. 

She pressed her lips together, and vaguely recall doing the same. She was wearing copper-brown lipstick of some kind and it sparkled unnaturally, as though she had purposefully worn it to evoke painfully perfect memories. I wanted to kiss her, anyway. 

I sighed. The hand she had placed atop mine suddenly tightened its grip, fingernails cut into the palm of my hand but I wasn't paying enough attention to notice the small tears of blood she made me cry. 

"John," she whispered, looking more tired by the second. "Oh, John, where on earth did we go wrong?" 

I didn't know how to answer. We both knew that we went wrong in the beginning, when she asked me if I would please give in and hold her. When I found her in my arms more and more often, when she kissed me and I kissed her, when I would sit and braid her hair before bedtime and she would press her lips to my cheek to say goodnight. Those times were wrong. Every second we spent together was wrong, and we should have known that someone would find out... But those times were the happiest in my life. 

"Did we go wrong, really?" I asked. 

She took a deep breath and whispered "Oh, God.", and before I knew it she had a firm grip on my shirt, then my neck, then her arms were wrapped around me and the table jabbed into my stomach as she pulled me closer. 

"Oh, God." I said. 

She kissed me as much as she deemed proper in a public place, and I tried to calm my heartbeat as I held her face between my blood-dotted hands. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, I tried the same although my breathing turned into a gasp less than halfway through. 

"I love you," she said, placing a small kiss on the heel of my hand. "I love you, John. Even more than chocolate." 

"I love you, too." I returned, kissing her forehead. "Even more than life." 

She had a good cry and asked me, several times, where I lived. I wouldn't tell her, though it killed me to see her shaking and looking so alone. She cried again, I tried to be comforting without actually touching her and removed her high-heeled foot from my ankle. 

"Please, keep me." she said, blurrily staring at me through her tears. "I won't live another five years without you." 

"Try," I said, trying not to swallow what I needed to say and forget the words. "Molly, if... if you love me at all, you _have_ to try." 

Not much happened after that. We stayed at the booth until she stopped crying and had cleaned herself up a bit. She asked me to walk her back to her hotel, and I wanted to so badly... but I explained what would happen and she left without me, a final kiss lingering on my lips to remind me of everything she was. I downed the rest of my gin and ordered one after another until it'd been three hours and I was certain she hadn't waited outside to ambush me. 

I've always liked to make lists of things I've had, or that I've wanted; just to see if I'm terribly material or very lucky. Now, though... Now, Molly sits at the top of both lists -- but I only feel miserable and stupid. 

And I've sworn off tea. 


	4. Surrounded

**A/N:** Happy Birthday One Month and Four Days Ago, aikakone! This chapter doesn't end very well, but it's how it goes in my head so I can't write anything else. It's weird.

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Sirius Black's mother, in the later years of her life, was not the most appealing woman in the world. She was dirty and yellowish with graying hair and a maniacal grin that could send chills down a person's spine. Everyone in 12 Grimmauld Place tried desperately to avoid her, but Ginny Weasley found her rather fascinating. At first, for the simple reason that when Mrs Black was screaming she looked suspiciously like Percy: skin wrinkled, shadowed and folding in the most peculiar places whilst it seemed to tighten in others. But, upon further examination, the curious redhead began to notice things that were much more interesting than a strange resemblance to one of her brothers. 

When she would be walking down the stairs or, far more frequently, bored out of her mind she would sit and stare at the painting by the doorway and examine it's subject with a slightly wary -- and yet, still intrigued -- eye. Whether on the bottom step or in the middle of the hallway, Ginny would stop in her tracks and watch Mrs Black as she would be in the midst of a fit of hysterical laughter, downing one of several bottles of scotch that had been snatched from an abstract painting upstairs, or occasionally listen to her rant about the filth that had invaded her sacred house. The sixteen-year-old was smart enough not to try and carry on a conversation with her -- Charlie and Bill had tried the previous summer and ended up with a shrieking fit and unthinkable insults flying from the woman's mouth. 

Even _Ron_ had never heard most of those words. 

After that, everyone was warned to stay away from "that bloody awful woman" -- but Ginny didn't. For some reason, she liked to know the effect that certain behavioral patterns could have on a person. So, as everyone bustled around her, giving consolation to those that needed it and carrying out plans for the Order, she was constantly learning that one's sanity was a very large price to pay for pureblooded comfort. 

She was also beginning to think how lonely it must be, constantly excluding people just because they have Muggle blood in their veins, or because they're beyond normal, or perhaps a bit too young for what's going on around them. That was why Ginny was alone most of the time -- she was too young, and had no one in the house with whom to wallow in self-pity because of the fact. Ron had Harry and Hermione, but now that they were in their final year of school they were being included. 

She... Well, she had Mrs Black, and was considering her lack of people to associate with when she suddenly found one. 

Remus Lupin, while not the most pleasant person on the face of the earth, was always a polite and gentlemanly character. His sense of humor was, of course, somewhat morbid but when he joined Ginny in staring at the woman hanging on the wall there was really nothing to complain about. They simply stood on the landing, watching and seeing and listening. He stayed with her throughout the entire afternoon and only left her company when they went to their seats at the table. 

The next day, he joined her again and bowed slightly as she acknowledged him. They sat on the bottom second to last stair, arms resting on their knees and eyes gazing up at the gold-framed painting of the erratic Mrs Black. While she had been very happy to have some company the other day, she couldn't help but wonder _why_, exactly, he was sitting next to her. Did he feel sorry for her, because she always seemed to be alone? Did she seem _very_ pitiful, then? And if this was an act of pity, shouldn't he have heard by now that she had plenty of things going through her mind to keep her busy? Pranks and jokes and hexes to learn for when she was back at school and that foul Pansy Parkinson was picking on her... 

"Why aren't you... you know... working, Mr Lupin?" she asked, turning to face him with what she hoped was an intimidating look. 

Then again, she was sixteen and he was near -- or past -- thirty-eight. She wasn't likely to intimidate him. But, he didn't seem amused by her frankness, either, as he leant closer. An air of confidentiality surrounded him, and when his face was decidedly close enough for him to whisper, he said (quite secretively): 

"It's my time of the month," He turned back to Mrs Black with an ironic little smile and added, "By the way, you can call me Remus." 

The rest of the day passed in complete silence for the two of them. 

He continued joining her as often as possible, although he was gone a considerable amount of the time when his health permitted. Meanwhile, when she wasn't busy with the painting everyone else seemed to loathe, Ginny had taken to baking. Nothing fancy and, as it was summer, nothing magical. Just simple things like cakes and biscuits that everyone enjoyed, and that she could hide for when Remus came home from whatever mission he'd been sent on. He would eat them as they sat in front of Mrs Black; the fact that each the fifteen or so she gave him would mysteriously vanish within five minutes became her only compliment. 

"You know," he told her as they headed towards the kitchen for breakfast one morning, "Werewolves love biscuits. I don't know why, exactly, but I suspect that they get a bit tired of biting bland things... like people, for example." 

"People are bland?" she had asked, raising her eyebrows. 

"Oh, yes. Very," he replied. She sat on the stairs with another batch of biscuits -- plus muffins, cakes and a rather neat-looking pastry -- for him, waiting for him to emerge from the darkest depths of his bedroom so that they might start their day happily. Last night, he had gotten back from what she suspected was recruiting more werewolves to their side looking infinitely more tired and morose than she had ever seen him before. She had stayed up very late with her baking, and while she felt as though she could fall over that very second, Ginny was very proud of herself for preparing an actual pastry without her mother or a spell. 

Ron, Harry and Hermione made their way down the stairs at half-past eight with two of the company trying to nick a muffin. Then came Tonks and Mad-Eye at nine, shortly followed by her Mum. She waited there until quarter-past ten, when Remus finally made his way into the hallway and down towards her. Upon seeing the extensive plate of baked goods, his eyes widened. 

"Good Lord," he said. "What's this?" 

"A bakery," she replied, patting the top of the stair she occupied with her hand. "You looked very tired last night, so I supposed you might like a muffin or two along with the biscuits. And I made a pastry for you," she sighed as he sat next to her, happily snatching a muffin from the plate. "It's a rather pretty thing, but I'm not entirely sure how good it tastes." 

"I'm sure it will be lovely," Remus said. 

Ginny watched him eat in brief, stolen glances that each seemed to make her progressively joyous. As usual, everything was consumed within a relatively short amount of time and he apologized for his lack of manners. She accepted them, knowing that it must be a very vexing thing to be an agent for the Order. She told him that he must get very hungry. He said that was very true. 

It was still for a very long time, perhaps two hours, before either of them spoke again. 

"Ginny," he said, "I think, that if you weren't quite so young, I'd marry you." 

She smiled. "That's very sweet, but I don't think anyone would take kindly to the idea." 

They fell once more into the deep silence that they shared, and he continued to clasp her hand as they stared up at Mrs Black -- the symbol of their once-felt loneliness. They shared just three more days like it before Ginny found herself headed back to school, to the emotional detachment and high levels of fear. And while Mrs Black did tend to make her rather depressed, she couldn't remember ever being afraid of anything when Remus was with her. 

He wasn't afraid when she was near him, either, although she didn't know that. She also didn't know that he was serious about marrying her.


	5. Messy

**A/N:** Answer to AJRoald's Father's Day challenge. Word count: 807... as for something that had to be included, they don't _eat_ dinner, but they're on their way to.

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Thomas Lysander Lupin, the sixth -- and youngest -- child of Remus and Ginny Lupin, was barely a day old when his grandmother started planning a party. In fact, Mrs. Molly Weasley began discussing it with her tired, irate daughter right after the boy was born. She went on four hours about decorations and guests and what would be served, making wild hand gestures and randomly jumping from topic to topic. Such was the excitement over little Thomas, who was cradled obliquely in his father's arms as the discussion of crocheted overalls began.

"We are _not_ having a party," Ginny told Remus the moment her mother had left the premises, back to guarding the five other children until their parents could come home. "I'll be exhausted, Thomas will be exhausted -- and I will not want to go _anywhere_." 

"Of course, Ginny," he said, staring down at her with golden eyes and smiling. "Besides, there is the matter of Beatrice's nervous condition..." 

Beatrice was their fourth child, and an almost exact replica of her mother when _she_ was six. Fiery temper, extensive imagination and... well, a touch of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder that popped up whenever her parents needed an excuse to get out of something. It was shameless, and they knew it, but certain situations were worthy of a way out. For example, dinner with Percy and Hermione who, after years of banter and superiority-complexes, finally gave into the inevitable and were now the equivalents of giggling schoolgirls whenever in each other's company. 

Anyway. Remus put up a very noble struggle against his mother-in-law, even throwing in the bit about Bea's OCD. But -- mostly due to bribes of Honeydukes chocolate and homemade pies -- he finally gave in. His excuse was that if he had a will of iron in the beginning, his wife certainly would have known. 

"You're an evil, evil man," Ginny growled at him, ferociously zipping a skirt with many layers and paisley patterns before lifting Thomas from his cradle and kissing his cheek. "Daddy's an evil man, Thomas," she whispered to him. "An evil, hungry man, so never trust him with anything you don't want your gran to know. She'll bake it out of him." 

Remus rolled his eyes and headed down the stairs to make sure the kids were all ready, and as he went he could hear someone shouting in unintelligable words. As he turned the corner at the end of the stairs and came to face the kitchen, he couldn't help but let out a gasp. The sight that met his eyes was horrifying. 

Marshmallows were strewn across the floor and over the furniture, along with a few crumpled biscuits and a rather large scattering of quills and parchment. In the corner, Sasha, Dana and Coda -- the triplets, age nine -- were bound with a thick silver chord, socks stuffed in their mouths as three-year-old Millie lay, crying, on their laps. 

In the middle of it all, redheaded Bea was nibbling on a cookie and looking very smug. That is, until Millie said "Daddy!" and bolted towards him, when his older daughter began to look very shocked indeed. 

"Bloody _hell_," Remus breathed, once again examining the scene before him. 

"Bloody hell!" Millie giggled. 

Bea looked up at her father with large, brown eyes and while he felt the Adorable radiation beginning to surround him, Remus continued to look disapproving. He had been a teacher, after all, and knew his wife when she was a teenager. If he managed to resist Ginny for as long as he did, certainly he could manage their daughter? 

"Beatrice," he said, "Er... would you mind explaining to me why you... did this?" 

She immediately dropped her gaze to the floor, hands grasping each other behind her back. "Dana told me I couldn't have a biscuit before dinner," she mumbled. 

"And..." he prompted. 

She looked up at her father with raised eyebrows, as though he didn't understand. "I _wanted_ one," she said. 

_Yes,_ he thought wryly. _An exact replica of her mother,_. 

Remus knelt down, so that he was closer to his daugher's eye-level, and said: "Bea -- I love you, darling, but you can't tie people up or make them cry when they say you can't have something." She looked confused. "It's selfish and wrong, for one thing -- but it's also a matter of knowing that you're not the center of the universe." 

The look in Bea's eyes said, quite clearly, _Yes, I am._ and Remus chortled. 

"What do you say to your brothers?" he asked. She stalked over to where they were tied and apologized, adding a rather sarcastic curtsy. "Now untie them, love, we've got to get to Gran and Granddad's house and I don't want your Mum to see this mess!" 

He picked Millie up and carried her with him back upstairs, meeting his wife halfway. 

"Everyone ready to go?" she asked miserably. 

"Er... yes, I think so."


	6. Unusual

It was dark, and that's all she knew as she ran across the lawns. It was dark, and she was being followed. Her heart was sure to give out before he caught her, but she knew that if she wanted to keep more than her life she had to keep going. Eventually, one of the hundreds of people she kept darting would notice. They'd see a stream of red hair flowing out behind the breathless, exhausted girl and know that Ginny Weasley was in trouble. 

A flash of green light whirred just over her and someone fell to the ground, inevitably dead. Retaliating yellow and red shocked people in the front line of battle, although it seemed that no one was injured. She couldn't tell -- blood was pounding in her ears, loud enough to deafen her for the rest of her life. The hooded, masked man behind her was still chasing. 

Part of her wondered why he didn't just Apparate in front of her and finish the job quickly, but the other part was grateful he was giving her a chance to escape. It wasn't a very big chance, but at least she had one. 

An explosion knocked at least sixty of their warriors backwards. 

Blood and death surrounded her, and her hope for escape was beginning to dwindle amidst the horrors of the final battle. So many of their men and women were dying or dead, so many were sprawled on the ground in mangled torture as Death Eaters laughed into the night. 

The man behind her was catching up. She could tell, because she could suddenly hear his labored breathing over her own. 

Her lungs were shriveled and ready to curl up forever, but she kept running. Circles, figure eights, anything to push him into the throes of the Killing Curse but it wasn't working. There was no one paying little enough attention to see her, there was no one to notice that things were not going well for the youngest Weasley child. 

She prayed silently, grasping onto every bit of faith and desperation she had and willed herself to find a way to get out of the situation she was trapped in. _Please,_ she thought, ignoring the uneven pounding in her chest. _Please, let me find a way out..._

The edge of the Forbidden Forest suddenly loomed over her, and she jumped several corpses under the full moon just to make sure that she got there. She could lose him in the trees. she decided. She could lose him in the trees and sit down and cry for eternity. 

She slowed, gradually, as she came closer and closer to the outskirts of the forest and leapt a few more bodies with glassy eyes and blood leaking from their mouths. She focused on the ground, on the obstacles that could keep her from the destination that could save her life. The first tree, she found, was in her reach and she allowed herself to stretch an arm towards it, relief floating through her head. 

And then, much to her horror, something growled. 

The Death Eater was not as far behind as she had assumed him, and he knocked her to the ground before she could see whatever lurked in the shadows. She fell with very little grace, screaming every obscenity her brothers had ever taught her, throwing punches at him as quickly as she could. 

It was not quick enough. A pale, sleek hand raised a wand and muttered an incantation -- her arms were pinned to her sides, legs locked together. Lucius Malfoy lifted the white mask from his face and smiled. 

"Now, Miss Weasley," he said in a sickeningly friendly tone. "I must admit I've always thought of you as such a sweet girl, and it pains me to have to do this to you," 

She tried to hit him, to bite him, but she was both bound and too far away to sink her teeth into that stupid hand of his. He continued to smile arrogantly, leaning back against the first tree within the limits of the Forbidden Forest of Hogwarts. 

"Oh, Ginevra," he sighed. "You supremely stupid girl." 

Something growled again, and in an instant an indistinguishable mass of brown fur walked onto the battlefield. 

She closed her eyes and there was a very long instance of extreme pain. _Scream_, she thought to herself and she tried, but there was no sound. Just pain and, afterwards, blackness. 

Nothing. 

* * *

It was morning, and the rain had started by the time Remus Lupin opened his eyes. His hair was stuck to his face, and he tried to wipe it away but the humidity and the wetness made his attempts futile. He muttered to himself about hating the rain and sat up. Stretched. Yawned. Everything methodical, everything devoid of spontaniety. 

Ten seconds to decide whether or not he wanted a bit more rest. He always mananged by five, however, and the remainder of the time was used to make sure he knew what he wanted. He wanted to be awake, he decided. He doubted whether or not he would ever be able to drop back into dreamland with water falling from the sky. 

He stood up. Stretched. Yawned again. Headed towards the large, hollow oak tree that housed his robes. He alternated between the Shrieking Shack and this interesting little grove when he was at Hogwarts. This month was the grove because of the war. 

Once he was fully clothed, he walked towards his makeshift bed and sat down, checking his fingernails for blood. Left hand, safe. Right hand... He squinted, looked closer. 

Not safe. 

The nails on his right hand were tinted a reddish-brown, skin splotched with identical patches and flakes of the same dark substance. Blood. What had he killed? Good Lord, what had he _killed_? 

He rolled up his sleeve, checking the rest of his arm for telltale maroon. Found it. Unbuttoned his shirt, rebuttoned his shirt and nearly cried. 

He swiped at his mouth with the clean hand, frantically searching the area for anything that might tell him. His hands felt through the soggy leaves and twigs and grass, groping for something possibly incriminating. 

Found it. 

In his bed, partly covered by dirt and things like that. Ginny Weasley. Bleeding, but not much. Just a scratch on her cheek. He let out a breath, carefully checked for signs of more vicious wounds and almost laughed when he realized that she was fine. Still breathing, tired-looking, but fine. 

He stared at her, unsure of what to do. Wake her up? Let her know she wasn't dead? Apologize? His head swam when he thought of all the conclusions she could jump to, and he fell back into the leaves with terror. He wasn't safe. She would think he wasn't safe, and they were such _friends_. Molly and Arthur would kill him first and think of asking questions later. 

He didn't do anything. 

Fingers flew to his temples, massaging as he tried to remember what happened. How she had found her way into his area, what she was doing. Nothing. Not even a scrap of black sky to notify him that it was night when he saw her. 

He sighed. Folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes against the rain as he faced the murky morning above him. 

Muscles ached. Head hurt. Spun. He fell asleep again, right next to her, wondering what people would think if (yawn) they saw this. 

...Probably nothing good. 

The next time he opened his eyes, she was standing and crying. Shoulders pressed against the trunk of a tree, gazing out towards the Hogwarts grounds. Red hair plastered to her head and down her back, black Muggle t-shirt and ripped jeans turned even darker by the rain. 

He sat up and walked towards her, not sure what to do but certain that he had to do something. He didn't know why she was crying. Him? Did she wake up and see him and think... No. No, he realized as he approached her that she was looking at the battlefield. Staring out, wide brown eyes welling with tears and rain. 

He placed a hand on her shoulder, hardly prepared for anything that was about to happen. She continued with her sobs, lips quivering, but she also grabbed his hand and pulled him a few steps closer to the dreadful scene. He followed without a single complaint. 

She brought him to the center of it all, staring around at the motionless morning. They were the only two creatures moving. She turned to face him, wet eyes examining his face. He didn't dare move, speak, breathe. People under emotional strain can be rash. 

She didn't attack him. 

He stared into her eyes, and they begged for him to take her in his arms. He did. Held her as close as physically possible and let her cry into his chest. She did, for what seemed like hours but then she looked up. Swollen nose, red cheeks. 

Kissed him, which he thought was strange considering the situation. Didn't care, though. She didn't care. He didn't care. They hit the ground between two lifeless bodies, still kissing. Pain. Anger. Terror. He felt everything she was sending him with opalescent tears and sharp kisses. 

Ran out of breath, so she stopped and hung to him for dear life. He held her still, not sure why but sure he'd never be forgiven if he let her go. 

"You saved my life," she whispered, eyes fluttering.


	7. Horrifying

**A/N:** This is the kind of chapter you get when I've eaten too many Pepperidge Farm Chocolate Hazelnut Pirouettes and listened to The Cure-and-or-The Aquabats for over an hour. 

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the websites I mention in this story, I don't own the story of aikakone's that I make vague references to, or anything else that doesn't belong to me. 

* * *

When Remus Lupin went down for breakfast that morning, he had no idea that his day was to be a strange and oddly fulfilling one. In fact, he was rather convinced that it was going to be miserable and full of boring card games with himself. This was his frame of mind as of late -- optimism be damned, he thought, if there's been a ban on firewhisky in front of the children -- and as he made his way towards the kitchen he assured himself that nothing good would be happening anytime soon. 

Upon reaching his destination, however, he noticed Ginny Weasley sitting at the dining table with an oddly-shaped machine in front of her. Annoyance was quickly exchanged for interest. 

"I say," he said, approaching the sixteen-year-old with caution, for he never really had a way with girls. "What's this?" 

She didn't even look up, but replied quite efficiently as her fingers tapped funny little buttons: "A laptop. I have a friend who works at computer repairs in Ottery St. Catchpole -- she gave this to me." 

"Ah," Remus mumbled, feeling rather confused. "Ehm... What are you doing?" 

"It's called a Google," Ginny said, glancing briefly over her shoulder at him. "You search for things and it finds them for you." 

A Google? he thought to himself. Good Lord, Muggles were bizarre. 

"Would you like a demonstration?" 

Forgetting his cup of tea, mug of coffee, bit of bacon and toast with marmalade, he replied with an eager acceptance that one only ever expects from a small child. She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like chuckling, but stroked the keys before he could accuse her of anything. 

She told him to have a seat. 

The screen (that's what Ginny called it and Remus smiled at the thought that he was learning a new language) became very white and at the top there sat the word "Google", each letter a different color. There were a few other words beneath that and then a very long rectangle. 

Ginny clicked on the rectangle and a little black line appeared, blinking on and off. 

"I'll do a search for _you_," she said, flipping red curls into his face. He tried to explain that he was right next to her, but she told him to shut up and he did, remembering that this demonstration was being done out of the goodness of her heart and not for any personal gain. 

Girls are infinitely more thoughtful than boys, he told himself. 

She hit a few more keys, then pressed a rather large button marked "Enter" and before he knew it a long list of blue words popped up. At the very top of which was Remus-Lupin.net. 

"Good Lord," he said. 

_Mr Moony Presents... Welcome to the Approved **Remus** J. **Lupin** (aka Moony) fanlisting! **Remus** is a character from the Harry Potter series..._

"What does that mean, 'the Harry Potter series?' " he asked, turning to face the youngest Weasley child with a feeling of genuine confusion settling into his head. 

"I've no idea," she replied, "And I gave up trying to find out. Shall I do another?" 

"Please, do," 

She did. This time, it was a completely different list of blue that came onto the screen, the first of which was heart the **ginny weasley** fanlisting. 

_Heart: The **Ginny Weasley** Fanlisting, Pop-up. Netscape is evil. MSIE; Image Maps; CSS; 800x600 or higher; lots of images/colours. Part of TheFanlistings.org_. "Do they really have images?" she said, although he wasn't sure he was supposed to answer. "Well, that's vaguely unsettling." 

"And what's with this fanlisting business?" Remus asked. "I'm rather sure I don't have fans," 

"I'm rather sure I'm eight hundred-by-six hundred," Ginny muttered, looking a bit put out. "I don't like this page, it's time for a different search." 

For the third time she hit an assortment of little buttons and, after what seemed a long time, the blue words came back: Original Fan Fiction. 

"Intriguing," she said, and a little blue arrow came to sit on top of the words. A clicking noise was heard before a peach colored background made itself known. She scrolled (that was another part of the computer-speak) down the page until she found something that held her attention enough to stop. 

"Harry and Luna?" she asked him, pointing to the sentence that had caught her eye. "Bloody hell, as if that'd ever happen." 

"Bill and Hermione?" he read, skipping down a bit. "Ginny, I'm beginning to wonder what kind of a thing this Google is." 

"Apparently a very disturbed one," she replied. "Whoever created this site seems to think that I baby-sit you during your break from the rest of the world and..." 

He turned his eyes to her face, raising an eyebrow. "And, what?" 

Very slowly, Ginny turned an abominable shade of red and a weak smile broke onto her befreckled face. She sniggered, sort of whimpered, and after a few moments managed to cough and look away as she pointed to a spot at the bottom of the screen where two horrifying words met his gaze. 

Werewolf nudity. 

"...What?!" he exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his chair. 

Ginny burst into laughter, clutching her stomach and trying to avoid falling to the somewhat hard-looking ground. Remus, however, didn't seem to think that this was funny at all. For goodness sake, she was sixteen! He was... much older! And who's business was it to imply that he... to infer that the two of them... 

"Damn, that's amusing!" she gasped, grinning. 

"No," Remus said, feeling as though the world had turned into a Beatles creation with no sense and kaliedoscope vision. "No, it's not." 

"Yes, it is," 

"No, it isn't," 

"Yes, it pretty much is." 

"No, it isn't!" 

She gave him a rather sultry look, complete with puckered lips and warm eyes that made his insides feel strange. 

"Remus," she said, sending a shiver down his spine. "Don't make me come over there,"


	8. Miscalculation

**A/N:** This chapter is more of a pointless attempt at character-practice than anything, but I'm rather proud and thought I'd add it regardless of the PWP factor.

One final thing: Go listen to "Blue in the Face" by Alkaline Trio, if at all possible. It's my background music.

* * *

When I was younger, I don't believe I ever thought my life would be the way it is now. As a matter of fact, most of my little fantasies of the future involved Harry and several children... Which only proves how dreadfully inaccurate my imagination was. Who ever would have guessed that I would no longer fancy dear Mr. Potter after three short years of knowing him?

Certainly not me. 

And I wouldn't _ever_ have guessed that my pre-fifth year summer would be occupied by rounds of some Muggle game called Scrabble with Remus Lupin. Neither could I have forseen the seemingly bottomless decanters of firewhiskey he seems to consume during our free time. 

The rest of the Order still makes a point of leaving me out, due to the fact that I'm Molly and Arthur's Ickle Baby. There's also the fact that the damage done to my ankle during the Department of Mysteries incident was rather peculiar, and the mediwizards actually recommended a Muggle cast. This, of course, would limit my activities to eating, sleeping, and perhaps reading were it not for Remus. 

Sweet, drunken Remus. 

I know he plays these games with me out of the kindness of his heart and his own boredom, but I still find it a very interesting thing that a man his age could possibly spend time worrying my entertainment -- or, more accurately, lack thereof. But it seems that whatever purpose he was assigned has been dutifully accomplished, and he runs out of things to do all by himself. Everyone seems to be on a mission now, and even though Harry, Hermione and my brother are not allowed to leave Grimmauld Place, they huddle together oozing secrecy and intrigue. 

Remus and I aren't that daft -- we don't really have time to worry what they're up to, because it's not really our responsibility. Dumbledore has told my Scrabble nemesis that he is to stay away from Harry whilst he goes through the tragedy of Sirius' death and the savage age that is sixteen, no matter what fatherly instincts he may have for the boy. I, personally, find this rather distressing. The man has no one, for heaven's sake, and the one person he _might_ found a good, solid relationship with gets ripped from his fingertips before they've even made a connection? 

Then again, I suppose that's my part of our oblique little union. 

"That's not how you spell methamphetamine," he says, squinting down at the little wooden squares with an accusative look in his blue eyes. 

This is the fun part. We get into at least one argument per game, either over my spelling abilities or his lack of sobriety. Stupid man and his alcohol... I'm the only one who has the heart to tell him that his liver will be shot before he turns forty-five, at the rate he consumes it, and he's the only one who dares tell me that I'm using a proper noun and he'll sing "My Favorite Things" purposefully off-key if I don't take the offending pieces from the board. 

"How would you know?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Indulge yourself after the thirteenth bottle of whiskey, hmm?" 

He laughs with a minor slur, and places his index finger on the bridge of my nose with a crooked smile. He says: "You're too cocky for your own good, Miss Weasley," 

I ask him how to spell methamphetamine, then, even though I already know the answer. I've done a lot of reading this summer, mostly schoolbooks and random things found in the Black Family Library. The only problem with the latter of those volumes is that they lean towards the scarier side of literature, and I don't have quite enough courage to peer at the pages of _Twelve-Hundred Prudent and Creative Ways to Satisfactorially Disembowel Your Enemies_. 

Apparently, there's a seperate illustration guide. 

Remus shakes his head at me, decides against my challenge and takes another drink of his precious firewhiskey, which is then placed next to him on the creaking floorboards of the upstairs hallway. It's our game room, as no one ever seems to be home, which means there is less of a need for that area. His room is down towards the back of the house, mine is on the ground floor next to a room full of mirrors. I don't know what it's for, but I went in there with Remus the other day and we laughed at our numerous reflections. 

"I wonder how you're going to survive," I say thoughtfully, staring down at the word PRETTY (which was his). "All you do is sit here with me, drink and laugh until you claim your lungs are going to explode. Don't you think that's a bit unhealthy?" 

He mutters something inaudible, but places a few letter tiles on the board and comments on the weather. 

"Beautiful day," he says. 

I ask him how he'd know -- he hasn't been outside in nearly three and a half weeks. 

"Guessing," he replies, with a boyish grin. "Yesterday you said it was dreary, and gloom can only be followed by something better." 

Wise words for a man drunk enough to think he's Queen Victoria. Of course, that was Thursday, but it happens all the same. I asked him once why he never seemed to get hangovers like Dad used to, and he told me that the key to banning a hangover was perpetual inebriation. 

"Doesn't that mean that if you ever _stop_ drinking, the hangover could be bad enough to kill you?" 

"We'll all die, eventually," he said, and I remember it so well because he looked very much like those pictures of Harry's at that moment. A bit younger, maybe a bit less jaded. "If God wants it to be now, fine. If God wants it to be later, when I've decided to give up drinking and my head feels like it's being trampled by seven-hundred elephants, so be it." 

Everyone knows why he does it -- the drinking, I mean. Ever since Sirius fell, he's had this notion stuck in his head that he's completely alone and without a single friend. So, he picked up the habit of drinking and it's a bloody good thing I'm the youngest in the house, because I fear any child below the age of fourteen would become a victim of traumatization once they heard his rendition of "If I Were a Rich Man" from that Muggle show _Fiddler on the Roof_. 

I'm the only one who really disapproves, though. Everyone else barely has time for consolation or pity, but I can sit here all day and recommend other methods of therapy. Journal-writing, for starters, or the old-fashioned discussion of feelings with a relatively close friend. I don't mean to sound arrogant, but I consider myself the closest friend this poor man has. 

"I'm out of letters," he says with a laugh, and he winks at me as though he finds himself terribly charming. "Which, if you can't do anything, means it's time for you to subtract your remaining... what is it, seven?" 

"Seven," I admit, rolling my eyes. 

"Seven letters," he continues in that wavy voice of his, with another mocking smile, "into your score, Ginny Dearest, and once again proclaim me the winner!" 

I always proclaim him the winner. He knows very well that I'm lying, but he doesn't care. Everyone needs to feel important. I grab my quill and the piece of parchment I've been keeping notes on and carefully subtract the seven letters -- A, R, V, I, E, L, and another A -- from my own points as I add the final word of the game into his. 

124, which is me, against 152... which is him. I stare at the parchment for a moment, double-checking the mathematics in my head. 

"Heavens, Remus," I say, looking up at him with what he calls my Cheeky Wench Expression. "You've actually done it this time." 


	9. Acting

**A/N:** This was an answer to a songfic challenge from** aikakone** at the GROWL forums. The song is "Broken" by Elvis Costello.

* * *

He was in the audience again on closing night, one of many people in the crowd with his knees victimized by anxious hands. His fingernails were very long, then, and he was certain that he was causing himself to bleed through the legs of thin trousers, but that was of little importance. She was burning up the stage again in that high-waisted period gown. Whoever would have thought that Shakespeare could be transformed by a single actress?

_If I am frightened, then I can hide it.  
If I am crying, I'll call it laughter._

He'd been six times already. The moment her mother told him that she'd landed a role, he'd packed a few sets of Muggle clothes from his time in Dublin (odd, he thought, that he had been alone then, too) and hopped a portkey to London. His jacket was dusty, but he didn't pay any attention to it. He wasn't coming for whoever he was to sit by, and she'd never recognize him under the heat of the lights. 

He knew, the moment she appeared, that he wasn't going to be returning home as soon as he had promised himself. 

_If I am haunted, I'll call it my imaginary friend.  
If I am bleeding, I'll call it my wine._

He gave her a standing ovation once the thing was over, and joined the rest of the theatre patrons as they bustled out into the night, inhaling cold November air that abruptly formed ice crystals in his lungs. He thought, very briefly, about going back. Perhaps to tell her she was wonderful, perhaps to tell her he was sorry... but the idea was sucked from his head by the presence of his hat, and he simply walked the streets until he found himself too tired to continue on. Upon reaching his room at the hotel, he fell onto a hard mattress and dreamt of that redheaded girl. 

The next morning, he drank half a bottle of Scotch and watched a talk-show, only to find that she was burning up the screen, as well. She and that boy, that young boy, were being interviewed on a minor station by a terse-looking woman with her hair pulled back much too tight. He didn't listen to a word anyone said, only watched her hands as she talked. That was always the real attraction, the way her fingers would jump and quiver and point as each word escaped her lips. 

She was sitting very far away from that young boy, and he smiled in content at the thought. 

_But if you leave me then I am broken,  
And if I'm broken then only death remains_

He came to the theatre again that night, and the next, and the next -- and by the final night he was able to count the seconds before she would walk confidently to her mark and begin that dialogue written hundreds of years ago. He could say each line with her, under his breath and in his head... and he felt the smallest swell of courage with each word. This was his last chance, he knew, to tell her that he came. 

He did not leave after the final performance, although it might have been best, and that bravery he had felt was dwindling quickly. But he walked through the lobby, down several different hallways and through a back door that lead to the dressing rooms. Most of the cast had family members or friends surrounding them in thick clouds of love, but she sat at the counter removing her stage make-up with a baby wipe. Not a friend in sight, although there was a rather dead bouquet of roses sitting in a cloudy vase. 

_If I am drifting, then I can fight it.  
If I am sinking, no-one will know it._

She saw him in the mirror and jumped. The wipe fell from her fingers as she whirled around, red curls flying through the air, and for one single moment he was in heaven. She used to do the exact same thing at Grimmauld Place, when she was angry or surprised. She would stand on tiptoe and twirl with all her might and smack her victim firmly in the face with a thick braid... But that was before. 

"You were brilliant," he said in that hoarse way he never could get over, and took his fedora in his hands as a nervous occupation. Her eyes were still wide and still brown. Still frighteningly beautiful. 

She replied with a breathy "Thank you..." 

People were beginning to file out of the area, a couple of actresses he barely recognized nodded their heads in his direction and talked amongst themselves. Eventually, however, they left as well. By the time she said another word to him, they were completely alone and she was visibly shaken. 

"I didn't expect you," she said, trying to sound very calm, scooting the chair she formerly occupied into place under the counter. "You have to admit it's a bit of a surprise..." 

"I've been listening to the audience," he said. "You've been fantastic. Everyone adores you..." 

She traced the outline of the mirror with a delicate white hand -- "Mum says you're living in the country?" 

"There was an older couple in the lobby, and they were both very impressed with your talent." 

_If I am blinded, I'll have my voices still to guide me.  
If they yet fled away I'd bless the silence..._

She blinked. Her hands remained completely still and he had a very firm grip on his hat. It was happening again, this silence that always seemed to bring about the worst in them. It was absolute agony for each, and he would surely die if it continued -- he would surely die if it were broken, though he longed to end it almost as desperately as he longed to release himself from this obscure prison and touch her face... 

Instead, she shattered the atmosphere that so enveloped him and took a small step backwards, saying, "Remus," in her old, terrified little voice. The same one she used all those years ago to call him 'professor'. 

Only now it was a different sort of neediness in her tone... 

"I sincerely enjoyed your performance," he continued, though he wanted to say _I'm sorry I couldn't love you before_... "all six nights..." and she drew a great, staggering breath. 

"All six nights, Remus?" 

"All six nights, Ginevra." a pause. "Ginny. Gin." 

"Oh," she whispered. "Oh, _oh_..." 

He caught another portkey back to the country the next morning, clutching at a battered suitcase with his name in peeling letters. He decided it was all he had left. 

_But if you leave me then I am broken,  
And if I'm broken then only death remains..._


	10. Daydreaming

**A/N:** This is an answer to a challenge by both **aikakone** and **AJRoald**.

* * *

He can see her at the back of the classroom, staring down into parchment and delicate purple ink. A nearly-featherless quill is held between her fingers, tip gliding gently across the white surface of her exam. She pauses, occasionally. Chews mercilessly on her bottom lip. 

He glances through the window, only to find it's raining outside. Not very heavily -- just enough to cause fog, which brings a mysterious air to the Hogwarts grounds. He lived for these kinds of days, once. Days when he could pull out a trenchcoat and a classy hat, and walk around like a private investigator. 

Muggles always have the most fascinating jobs... 

But he's getting distracted, and that's not good. He's supposed to be watching her take the exam, making sure she doesn't cheat, making sure she doesn't kill herself before the final question. He's surprised to find, however, that she's staring out the window with a look of longing on her face. 

It's the fog and the drizzling water falling from the sky. He can tell. She seems to be enchanted, mesmerized by the silvery clouds flowing and twisting through the air. 

She wants to put on a black dress and a tragic pout because of that weather. Nylons, and gloves with little pearl fasteners; high heels, a hat with a veil of net, to cover her face. 

_She would walk into his office one wet, dark afternoon to explain the abrupt disappearance of her parents. He'd listen, reclining slightly in a chair behind a desk as he fiddled with his suspenders, and the part of his hair. _

_"You will help me find them, won't you?" she'd ask, voice full of heartache that Shirley Temple could never manage. "I miss them so terribly..."_

_And she would cry._

"Ginny," he finds himself saying, although he's not looking at her. "I think we'd both rather spend our Saturday outside."


End file.
